Getting Caught by Mandy Hubbard

don’t fit in. I’m like the black sheep, only the opposite—my entire family is black sheep and I’m the white one, the one who wants to conform and succeed and climb the ladder. I hate feeling like no one gets me.
    When I’m at Harvard, I’ll fit in. I’ll be around thousands of other overachievers and finally, life will make sense. I’ll probably find a ton of other people use their neuroticism to help them succeed. I won’t have to help my brother fill out job applications or my dad come up with new slogans.
    For now, though, it’s just me and my family.
    My dad looks up at me and smiles, and for once I don’t see the bags under his eyes. “We’re all going to get some burritos after to celebrate Tina’s success,” he says, like she’s just won the Pulitzer prize. I can almost see the pride in his voice, like it’s a tangible object.
    “Why? Is she out of art materials?”
    My dad looks confused. “What do you mean?”
    He doesn’t wait for an answer, just wanders off again, leaving me surrounded by a bunch of empty Snickers wrappers and pipe cleaners.
    If this Harvard thing doesn’t work out for me, I am so screwed.
     

Chapter Fourteen
    Jess
     
    When Dave mentions something about getting a bite to eat, I assume we’re heading toward Charlotte’s Diner. Though I’ve never been there, I know it’s the school’s hangout, and thus it’s Dave’s hangout . Instead, we pass right by, heading out of town. For a few bewildering moments, I almost believe Dave is going to drop me off in the woods and leave me for dead.
    After a fairly uncomfortable half-hour drive, I see a “Welcome to Stewartsville” sign. We pull into a place called “Shiner’s Diner.” I’ve never heard of it, and evidently, neither has anyone else, because the lot’s empty.
    When we walk inside, the smell of cigarette smoke nearly suffocates me. Are we really supposed to eat here? The only clientele are a couple of balding old men on barstools, hunched over their coffees. The waitress looks up from the classified section of a newspaper and takes in my army jacket, destroyed denim mini, and rose-printed tights. Then she looks at Mr. Clean Cut, and though we look like the embodiment of the old saying “opposites attract,” her expression doesn’t change. The silence is eerie.
    Dave motions to a booth nearby, and as I slide in, one of the grizzled men blows his nose so loudly into his handkerchief I nearly jump.
    It hasn’t been a great date, and this diner is proving to be the icing on the cake. The whole night I’ve been on edge, and it’s obvious I’m not the only one. In gym, tossing one-liners to each other had been easy. But with a date there are certain expectations. Dave picked me up late and has been acting nervous—he hasn’t attempted to say more than ten words to me all night. Everything is just plain weird.
    I order a big plate of French fries and a root beer, figuring now is the time for real conversation. Instead, Dave just meddles with the sugar packets.
    “So,” I say, my voice like glass shattering as it breaks the silence, “Why here?”
    He looks at me and shrugs. “Why not?” When he sees my raised eyebrows, he says, “They make a good burger.”
    I snort, because there’s no way this place is known for good food. “What about Charlotte’s?”
    He goes back to piling the sugar packets, like a seasoned architect. “What about it? I just thought it would be too crowded.” He gives me a hard glare. “What are you saying? That I dragged you out here because I’m ashamed to be seen with you?”
    I purse my lips and give him an If the shoe fits look.
    “If that was the case, I wouldn’t have asked you out. I just figured you wouldn’t want to see Peyton, since you seem to hate her so much.”
    “I forget. Why did you ask me out again?” I say, still not assured. Here we are, in the middle of nowhere, bringing the average age of the clientele in this place down to sixty. Not only that,